


Destiny's a Bitch

by milesofregrets



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angels are Dicks (Supernatural), Azazel Being an Asshole (Supernatural), Bisexual Dean Winchester, Boy King of Hell Sam Winchester, Castiel & Sam Winchester Friendship, Eventual Castiel/Dean Winchester, Heaven & Hell, M/M, Mild Blood, Post-Hell Dean Winchester, Post-Season/Series 02 AU, Psychic Sam Winchester, Rowena MacLeod & Sam Winchester Friendship, Witch Sam Winchester, a really self indulgent au where everythings similar but rowena is there and theres destiel, im hopefully going to add more characters as it goes
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-17
Updated: 2021-02-15
Packaged: 2021-03-14 22:02:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 17,308
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28802502
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/milesofregrets/pseuds/milesofregrets
Summary: What if Dean got never got a year in his deal? What if, without the help of his brother, Sam was dragged to Hell by Azazel, forced to be a chip in Heaven and Hell's bargaining game over the Earth?Sent to Earth to save both Winchesters from Hell, Castiel finds himself face-to-face with an impossible situation: locating the center of damnation and killing a Knight of Hell, all the while attempting to both work with the famously stubborn Sword of Michael, and prevent him from disrupting the coming apocalypse. However, as he grows frustrated with the inscrutable guidance of Heaven and grows increasingly closer to Dean, his certainty of the future and his role in it grows weaker and weaker.Meanwhile, Sam seethes under the watchful care of Azazel, his powers growing alongside his rage every day. Despite being Hell's poster boy, he spends most of his days alone and in shackles, fantasizing of putting a bullet in Azazel's skull and dragging his brother from the coals. But somewhere along the way he finds an unusual ally in a powerful witch named Rowena, similarly trapped (in a way), and the two of them form an uneasy alliance, one that leads Sam to learn more about his power and his capability for good.
Relationships: Castiel & Sam Winchester, Castiel/Dean Winchester, Rowena MacLeod & Sam Winchester
Comments: 5
Kudos: 33





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> hello hellers. welcome to my selfish au corner where i take all my favorite parts of spn and shove them together  
> im sorta just having fun with this so if you see any plot holes no you didnt. some basic things about this au follow:  
> -in this universe, dean was never given a year to live. when he brought back sam, he died.  
> -so canonically azazel makes his demon kids so one of them will raise lucifer. in this au he lives and takes sam to hell in order to ensure that he'll do so, whether by tricking him or makin him evil, it doesnt matter  
> -rowena is just there. i will explain why but if it goes against any canon i do not care shes just . there  
> -im also being pretty liberal with what cas knows about the apocalypse? tbh i dont really remember what he was told his orders were in s4 so im making it up as i go  
> -excuse how short the first chapter is yall its a prologue  
> anyway, i hope you enjoy! i will really try to update this and keep it going !

"Castiel."

A voice echoes through space, infinite and powerful. An angel moves to listen, eagerly ready for his waiting to be over.

"Yes, brother?"

There is a pause before the response, heavy and thunderous, as the voice of the heavens so often is.

"It is begun." comes the order, and Castiel feels himself straighten, his eyes heavy, the feeling of purpose something like holy fire that steels his nerves.

He has his orders.

"Dean Winchester will be raised from Hell." He replies with confidence, yet there is a feeling of hesitation in the air. 

It is static, and Castiel pauses as he prepares to move, sensing there is more to the command. 

"There has been a complication." continues the voice, sounding almost hesitant to share the news with the seraph, who blinks and faces the sky in a wordless gesture asking for elaboration.

"The knight of hell, Azazael, is holding Lucifer's vessel. You must free him."

Castiel processes the news for a moment, before throwing his voice to the wind in a question he knows will not be answered.

"Why?"

He does not elaborate. He only thinks.

Is it not easier for him to break the final seal under watch of a demon? Would he not be cared for as the true vessel?

All of these things he thinks, but he does not say. He dares not crowd the question with any air of disobedience. Rare enough that any simple thing he asks might be answered, nonetheless one which so clearly demands the purpose of heaven's order.

He waits for a moment, but unsurprisingly, the voice is silent, and Castiel resigns himself to being kept in the dark once again. He had not been so foolish as to expect that the high command would explain itself to a simple solider such as himself, yet the curiosity does not cease it's itch, and he finds himself wondering silently, though fruitlessly.

But just as he is ready to break the connection, he is shocked by the swell of the thunderous sound as it tentatively continues.

"...The demon holds far too much power in such a position. He must be eliminated. The righteous man will be able to reach the corners of hell that we cannot- you must use him, Castiel, and your mission will be possible."

There is a rush of grace as the eyes of the messenger leave him, and he knows the orders are finished. 

Castiel rises with renewed faith, a journey and a destination mapped out in front of him, and he takes the words in stride.

Find him, Castiel.

And somewhere between Earth and the layers of hell, an angel descends, it's wings alight with all the fury of heaven.

-

Quite frankly, Sam Winchester is damn tired of being the King of Hell.

"King" is a generous term, anyway- Azazael is the king, for all intensive purposes. The demons fear him, he makes all the choices, and he oversees every soul that he condemns. Sam is just his poster boy. The attack dog, who's stuck half the time in some dark and dingy backroom being whipped into shape, as though Azazael thinks that if he kicks hard enough, he can punt Sam's soul from his body, shove him into the mold of Satan 2.0. 

At the moment, he feels about a thousand miles from regal, slumped over on a hard, cold, rough-edged imitation of a throne and facing down a dark entryway where demons crouch to catch glimpses of him from the warded shadows, the glint of their eyes turning his stomach. He feels like a zoo animal, gawked at, only a pane of glass preventing him from ripping through their flimsy bodies. Had he not been half-starved and aching from the jagged corners of the throne poking into his sides, he would muster up the courage to stare them down until they scurried from sight, but it's all he can do to just sit upright, the cold bite of metal chains on his feet leeching energy from his body. It's almost laughable to think they're meant to scare the demons, as though they're protecting the flock, and not tying him down like a rabid dog.

"How are we feeling today, Sammy?" a familiar voice calls out, slimy and dripping with malice, and yet Sam can hear the ever-present smile on Azazael's face just before he slips into view.

The demon strides through the doorway with a snap of his fingers, and there's a hiss in the air as his lesser subjects scatter at his feet.

"Bite me." Sam snaps back, like always, but the familiar boiling rage in the pit of his stomach is weak.

Azazael ignores the retort, as he's long since gotten used to doing.

"Hm. Not feeling so hot, huh?" he continues with disgustingly false sympathy, glee barely concealed in his face.

His voice never gets less disquieting. He slips over his conjunctions and hisses out vowels with a snake-like tone, always so self-assured that it's impossible to shake the feeling he always knows the next words out of your mouth.

Sam hopes the demon can see the absolute loathing in his eyes.

"Never fear! I come in peace." 

Sam almost laughs, but he's pretty sure he'd vomit if he did.

'When has that ever been true?" he snarls, and Azazael chuckles.

"Always so critical." he clucks, rummaging through a burlap sack that's slung over his shoulder. "I do want what's best for you, you know."

Sam is too tired to roll his eyes.

"Yeah. That's why you dragged me to hell and starved me for three days, right?" 

Azazael gives him another poisonous grin, pulling a vial of dark liquid from the depths of the bag with a triumphant sound.

"No hard feelings, Sam. This'll just be so much easier if you're hungry." he croons, and Sam feels cold all of the sudden, his hair standing up on end.

"The hell are you talking about?" he hisses, sinking back into the hard surface of the throne as though he could shy away from Azazael's reaching hand.

"Oh, relax. You'll enjoy this soon enough." he huffs ominously, fiddling with the cap on what Sam, to his dismay, recognizes as blood. 

Before Sam can truly appreciate the horrifying implications of that fun tidbit, his attention is grabbed by the clattering of chains and muffled cries coming from the shadowy doorway. Moments later, a figure collapses through the warding, a demon wrapped in iron chains and gagged with a devil's trap cloth. He's young, heavyset, and his black eyes are strained with pure terror as he meets Azazael's gaze. 

Sam groans.

"I'm exhausted, y'know." he mutters. "Four months of this and you think one day I'm just gonna snap and be your bitch?" 

Azazael glances at him, a happy gleam in his sickly yellow eyes that turns Sam's stomach.

"It's in your blood, Sammy. We've spent quite a bit of time toning your skills, and now, you just need... a little... motivation."

Then his dirt-encrusted fingernails are digging into Sam's face who's too weak to fight off the hand that presses the glass vial to his lips. The lesser demon struggles with renewed intensity against his shackles, screaming himself hoarse against the muffle, and Sam can only watch and choke as Azazael forces the blood down his throat, thick, rusty, and sweet, and feel his heart pound louder and louder until it drowns out the world.

-

Dean Winchester's hand breaks the surface of the earth.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i just realized this whole chapter switched wildly between present and past tense so i went through and changed it,,, sorry if you notice any issues in continuity im struggling

He gasps.

He gasps in air like his whole body has been empty for years and years, and although it's stale and warm and scratches his throat with dust, he gulps it in with feverous desperation. It shocks his system, inflates his lungs and his body reacts with flailing instinct, his knees pulling up and his hands slamming from side to side against rotting wood. 

His eyes dart back and forth but there's nothing to see-everything is dark. It's pitch black and deathly quiet, unfamiliarly so, in a way that almost makes his skin crawl. There's no ambient hiss or echo of screams in the distance. In fact, it's thick and so claustrophobic. In Hell, everything was so vast and unmappable that his soul felt tiny, insignificant to the point of existential terror. But all of the sudden, Dean was alone, crushed by stuffy air, and amazingly, miraculously alive. His nails dug deep into the surface around him, with only a few inches between his shoulders and the constricting sides of the box, and in desperation he punched upwards, feeling a solid crack beneath his knuckles. The deep-seated panic begins to bubble up in his throat until he croaks out a soundless cry, blood dripping from the tips of his fingers, and with one last crunch, dirt is spilling down his face and he digs feverishly forward into the darkness, somehow relishing from the burning of his muscles, repeating the same three words in a reassurance to his scrambling brain. 

I am alive.

I am alive.

I am alive.

He drags himself from the Earth with very little thought, adrenaline coursing through his body and allowing for the automatic movement of hands in soil, but the fresh air hits him like a wave, like the feeling of fresh water against a dusty mouth, and he stops with his body halfway buried to gulp down the cool, moisture-rich spring breeze. His thoughts are scattered, and he has no idea where he is, or if what he's feeling is even real. Almost like he's running on autopilot, and he knows he should be panicking, but somehow, he's not. I mean, how the hell does someone even begin to process waking up in their own damn coffin? Especially after the literal hell he fell asleep in, it's like one fucked up acid trip. He's instantly slammed with sensation, the feeling of grass and weeds against his skin, the humid air, the buzz of insects and birdsong faint in the trees on the horizon.

John's voice echoes, grating in his ear. 

_"The first thing you want to do if you find yourself lost? You find your directions, you get your bearings. Don't just take off running- the more lost you get, the easier a target you are."_

Find my directions. He repeats to himself, blinking up at the weak sunlight until his eyes adjust, mentally kicking himself to focus, focus. __  
_Don't panic. Don't panic. You panic, you die._

He squeezes his fists until what's left of his fingernails dig deep enough to draw blood. It's all he can do to drag in each breath as he kicks his second foot from the grasp of the dirt with a heave, and tries to stand on shaky legs, staring out in blank confusion and awe at the unfamiliar landscape.

It's unfathomable, almost, to look forward and to see mountains, trees, grass, like he can't believe his own eyes. The world around him is stretched out against the sky, tall pines a few hundred yards away scraping the tips of the sky. He watches in disbelief as a bluebird lands on the tip of a branch spiraling out to him. It cocks it's head, hopping back and forth as though equally confused about his predicament, flashes of orange and blue feathers catching in the sun.

But even as he feels the fresh air on his skin, there's a nasty little voice in his head that sounds suspiciously like a particular demon whispering smugly.

_You're in Hell, Dean. Don't you think we would ever let you go._

Dean grits his teeth. He presses a finger into a splinter in his arm, feeling the warmth of the blood roll down his skin, the gravity and the weight as the bead of blood drips to the ground, and it feels so unforgettably real, real in a way that Hell could never replicate, with the sting of the open air and dirt biting into him. They never did get that right- sure, those bastards could make you feel pain worse than your worst nightmares, but they couldn't change the fact that all they had was a soul. The feeling of a paper cut on a physical body was just infinitely different than a hook through the center of a fake one.

The bluebird takes off with a short, shrill note, dragging Dean's attention to it's tiny body as it zips into the air from it's perch. His eyes follow the flash of feathers, watching as the twig turns into a root and a root into a huge stump, which is upturned and facing him like the open mouth of a cave. He drags his gaze upwards to see splayed pine needles forming a fan around a tall felled tree, and with a chill he notices a striking absence of forestry around where he stands. On instinct, he turns in a half circle, and is faced with dozens of similar massive trunks nearly the size of his own body. In fact, he is totally surrounded with a flat circle of crooked trees, all either ripped from the Earth or snapped straight through at the base, jagged points sticking out like knives towards his comparatively small body. It's a striking sight, sucking the breath from his lungs, like he's been caught in the center of some kind of massive blast zone.

Ok, what the hell.

-

His shoulder burns.

The general coherency of his thoughts is questionable at best, but he knows that much- there's an incessant fiery soreness to his arm that doesn't let up no matter how he moves it.

_"Always keep your guard up. If you're being chased, keep moving."_

2008\. It's September of 2008.

His shoulder burns.

_"Doubt is dangerous, son. You're a hunter now, and a hunter trusts his instincts."_

He's alive. He's alive, he's alive, and it's 2008.

Dammit, Sam. What did you do?

His shoulder burns.

_"You hearing me, Dean? This stuff could damn well save your life. Pay attention."_

There's a handprint on his arm.

Red and irritated, the indent of each finger is seared into his skin like some kind of brand, and it aches with an unfamiliar electricity. 

He feels sick.

-

The feeling of water in his throat is damn near heavenly. He downs nearly an entire bottle (although half of it spills down his face) before even taking a breath, desperate for the relief it brings.

_"Dehydration is the fastest killer. You find water, you stay with it."_

It's the best thing he thinks he's ever tasted.

As he wanders down the aisles of the convivence shop, grabbing anything remotely edible along the way, the surreal feeling of just being there never quite leaves. For the moment, unbothered by the outside world, it's almost like he was never even dead at all, like it could be any ordinary Tuesday grocery run were it not for the shock racking his body. And maybe it's the survival instincts kicking in, or maybe it's his brain's complete inability to process the situation, but whatever's keeping Dean sane and standing, he doesn't look the gift horse in the mouth and happily sweeps the contents of the flimsy, dusty shelves into a plastic bag. He even grabs money from the register, although a very detached part of him sort of feels bad that his first instinct is to steal cash.

 _I just got back from Hell. I fucking deserve this._ He chides himself, tearing into some off-brand power bar to soothe the gnawing hunger growing in his gut.

But when the small, boxy TV next to him kicks on into static, he flinches, nearly drops everything he's holding. It drones on, the high-pitched whine drilling into his ears, and he flicks it off with a growing discomfort.

Within a second, though, it's back on, this time flipping between some local news channels, and the danger sirens in his head begin to blare. 

_"Always be prepared for the worst."_

He tries to collect his thoughts, jumping as a radio across the store buzzes to life. Salt. I need salt, his instincts scream, and he spots a relatively untouched rack of road salt, rushing towards it as disposable phones on the walls beside him blare static and flashlights blink on and off with increasing frequency. He grabs one of the blue plastic tubes and crashes towards the nearest window, a high-pitched whine drilling into his ears, but the salt spills everywhere around his shaking hands. He can't even hear himself think. Soon enough the tone drowns out even his base survival instincts. He claps his hands over his ears, but there's no change- it's like the sound is coming from everywhere at once, dragging him to his knees, and he is dimly aware of the feeling of glass raining down over his back, but it's nothing compared to the pounding of his own head. He hopes desperately that he's not about to become the victim of a random supernatural disaster, a John Doe for some poor bastard hunter to stumble upon in a week or so, feeling a strange pang of sympathy for the many bodies with bleeding ears and eyes he'd encountered over the years. If this is what it feels like to have your head explode, he thinks, I'd rather stay dead.

Then as quickly as it came, it's blissfully and suddenly gone, leaving an echoing silence resounding in his ears.

Dean blinks, his body relaxing limply backwards as the clamp of pressure in his skull releases. He carefully opens one eye, peeling his hands from around his head, kneeling beneath a now shattered window, glass coating every inch of the store's linoleum flooring, but miraculously, he's unharmed, save for a few tiny cuts up and down his arms.

"Well that's a new one." he admits breathlessly to no one in particular, standing up to the sight of an otherwise pleasant afternoon in the middle of nowhere.

-

"Call again and I'll kill ya."

Dean sighs, and slams the rusted payphone against it's hook. At least Bobby was alive. And he certainly hadn't changed.

The whole ride down the dusty road, he tries to distract himself from letting his thoughts wander, following the convenience store's map with one finger, and debating flipping on the radio but deciding against it, the ringing in his ears a clear protest. 

September of 2008.

Sam's out-of-service number is not exactly a reassurance to his safety. Although it's nowhere near unusual for a hunter to switch phones every few months, Dean can't shake the unease- I mean, in his defense, the last time he'd seen Sam in the flesh, he'd just come back from the dead. No doubt, a demon deal was binding for both the demon and the bargainer, but Sam didn't exactly have what Dean would call well-developed problem solving skills, nor did he have a firm grasp on anger management. It was all Dean could hope for that he wasn't dead in a ditch somewhere. Or worse, taking Dean's place in Hell. 

Every lull in his cycle of worry was an opportunity for much darker thoughts to take hold, so he tries not to let his guard down, to not let up on the gas, for some irrational fear that he's outrunning something, like there were flashes of hellfire at the edges of his vision. When he adjusts his rearview mirror and catches a glimpse of his face, he tells himself the black eyes he sees are just a trick of the light. The world around him is almost eerily silent- not a single other car passes him on the whole way to Bobby's. It's disquieting, and Dean feels himself worry, maybe irrationally, about how much he really missed in Hell. I mean, four months was time enough for any amount of crazy shit to happen. Maybe demons took over the world. Maybe nothing changed at all- frankly, it's impossible to tell.

-

Dean leans into Bobby's hug. He grounds himself in the warmth and rough sensation of his old shirt, the familiar smell of whiskey in the air between them, and it feels like home, like he's 11 years old again, for just a moment.

"What the hell, kid?" is all Bobby can manage as he pulls away, an expression in between joy and bewilderment sitting on his face.

"Believe me, I got no clue." Dean snorts, but there's no real bite to it.

He walks into the cabin with slow steps, taking in the sight of it with relieved eyes.

Unsurprisingly and comfortingly, it hasn't changed much from the last time he'd seen it. There are a few extra layers of dust on the windowsills and more than a few empty bottles scattered across the desks and chairs, but other than that, the peeling wallpaper and thick old lore books sit just as they were. Not that he'd expected anything different- Bobby was nothing if not a creature of habit.

The old man in question was still standing shell-shocked, and Dean takes the opportunity to give him a once over. He looks... well, he looks like shit, in all honesty. There are obvious bags under his already wrinkled eyes and a certain hollowness to his features that suggests he hasn't been eating quite enough, not to mention his clearly mismatched clothes or the thick smells of various kinds of alcohols that permeate the air. Dean notices his desk is piled high with thickly bound books, some that look damn near ancient, all flipped to random pages and stuffed with scraps of paper to mark notes. The window shades are drawn shut tight, forcing the electric light to illuminate the dark corners of the house.

"No judgement here, Bobby, but... you look terrible." Dean comments, trying to keep his tone light and joking despite the undertone of worry.

Bobby gives him a withering glare.

"Well excuse me for offendin' your delicate sensibilities. It's not exactly like the last few months have been a picnic." he grumbles, but there isn't much real annoyance behind the words. 

If anything, he seems withdrawn, like he doesn't want to meet Dean's eyes.

"Sorry." Dean chuckles darkly, a little embarrassed.

"Ah, don't worry about it." he dismisses, wandering over to the edge of the room where a table stands stacked with glasses and a tumbler. "You were in Hell, I think you get a pass for rusty social skills. Drink?"

Dean sighes in relief, collapsing into the nearest chair.

"Hell yes." 

He snatches the amber glass of whiskey from Bobby as soon as he can, downing it instantly with a hiss. It burns like a sonofabitch, but there's a familiar kick to it that makes him feel a little more alive, a little more in control of his body.

"It's good to see you, Dean." Bobby says after a moment, settling into his own armchair, voice unusually gentle.

His eyes were fixed on Dean, who was still reeling a bit from the drink, yet focused enough to notice the honest smile on the old man's face. Bobby had gotten over his shock enough to not look like he was dreaming anymore, although he still stared at Dean as though trying to memorize every aspect of his face. Maybe before the scrutiny would have made Dean uncomfortable, but he was too busy basking in the presence of another person and in the feeling of freedom to really care, so he just sat and tried to push aside the empty space between the two of them. Silent questions hung in the air, a tension waiting to be broken by either man, difficult to ignore. 

"Bobby..." Dean began to say, but he wasn't sure what words he could dredge up that would somehow convey the ball of emotions in his gut.

It's not like emotional vulnerability was ever his talent, and as he settled into the old house, he was flooded with a guilt that tangled him even further up in knots. 

Before he could force out any more words, though, Bobby cuts him off with a raised hand.

"You don't gotta explain. I'm just glad we got ya back." he sighs, though it's clear there's some part of him that contested.

"The last time I saw you..." Dean began, cringing at memories he'd tried hard to ignore, "...I shouldn't've left like that. I... I don't know. I wasn't fair."

Bobby sighs again, deep and tired, like he'd already known what Dean would say.

"I ain't gonna say what you did wasn't stupid. But I know why you did it."

Dean sank weakly into the chair, gripping his glass with a sweaty hand. Sam's name hung unspoken, and he was almost too afraid to mention it in case all his worst fears were confirmed, but he swallowed his terror along with another fifth of whiskey, trying to forget about the way Sam's body had leaned limply against him, his eyes half-closed, and tried not to see blood coating his hands.

"Sam's... is he...?" 

The question couldn't quite form in his throat, but it didn't need to. Bobby's expression tells him everything, stiffness in his hands as he leans forward with them clasped, almost as though he's praying. The air in the cabin suddenly feels stifling.

"Dean... I'm tryin' to find him." Bobby says in a low voice, shaking his head as he does, unable to meet Dean's eyes. 

There's grief in his face, the grief of a man who had long since accepted fate, and Dean feels himself drift away from his own body.

"Find him?" he cries out with a cracking voice, trying to fight back a well of despair that threatened to overwhelm him, "The hell do you mean 'find him'?"

Dean stands up with a jolt, worst case scenarios flicking across his vision. Sam, dead and alone. Sam, more demon than human, fighting side by side with Azazel. Sam, trapped and dying with nobody left to save him.

Bobby runs his hand over his own face, desperate to collect himself.

"Kid-"

"No. No, see, I made a deal. I went to Hell for him! He has to be ok!" Dean shouts, his voice spiraling louder and louder as he slams his glass down with shaking hands, letting his legs carry him back and forth across the small room.

Bobby shoves his chair back, standing with renewed strength, although there's familiar pain in his stony expression.

"Dean!" he barks back, a stern order, but it's understanding in the way John never was, grounding in the way Dean's anger is not.

Dean vaguely processes the feeling of hands on his shoulders, forcing him backwards and holding down his curled fists from slamming into the walls around him.

"Tell me he's not dead, Bobby." he croaks out, reaching out to support himself on Bobby's retreating arms. "He can't be."

There is far too long of a pause before the response.

"I... I don't know." Bobby manages, ragged hat drooping over his eyes, "But I don't think so."

Dean slumps his head and rests a fist on the wall beside him, internally cursing the world through gritted teeth. Some part of him wants to be angry, to get pissed enough to punch a hole through a mirror or start a screaming match, but his exhaustion is too heavy, his emotions too drained. He almost smiles bitterly- of course the universe would find a way to screw him over, just when he thought he'd finally caught a break. That was just their Winchester luck.

"You know I ain't giving up him, Dean. Your brother's tougher than we give him credit for." Bobby says, attempting to return his tone to it's regular gruff determination, but it's not quite convincing enough, and it doesn't break through Dean's spiraling thoughts.

There's a moment of static tension as Bobby looks to Dean for some kind of affirmation, but the latter only slumps back down into his chair, running a sweaty hand through his hair. There's no background noise to break the prolonged silence, only the faint buzz of lightbulbs and the scrape of wood against wood as the chair inches backwards.

"What the hell happened?" Dean finally rasps, quiet and pleading.

Bobby sighs, making his way to his own chair behind his desk.

"Azazel happened."

Dean freezes.

How are you supposed to act when the thing that's been your deepest, darkest fear for years and years is suddenly real?

Dean isn't sure, but he certainly doesn't take the news in stride.

"You let that bastard take my brother?!" he barks, and suddenly it's not as hard to muster up his anger.

Bobby's gaze darkens, his jaw clenching.

"I didn't 'let' him do jack shit! You think I wanted to lose Sam? To lose you both?" he shouts back, but cuts himself off as he loses control of his failing voice.

Dean is stricken silent as Bobby attempts to reel back his harsh tone, raking his hands across his face.

"Look," he starts to say, choosing each pained word carefully, "I tried, kid. But when you wouldn't answer your phone, and Sam showed up at my door lookin' like he was ready to dust either me of himself, I knew you weren't comin' back." 

It's clear to see how much it hurts for him to relive the memories, but he continues, refusing to let himself fall short of a real explanation.

"There was nothin' I coulda said that would have changed that kid's mind. Didn't take him long to track down Azazel-managed to stop him from opening the gates to Hell, but he missed his shot."

Dean doesn't think he can hear any more. 

_  
"I'm proud of you, Sammy. Always have been."_

_"What?"_

_"You're gonna be ok, you know that."_

_"Ok after what? What's going on, Dean? Is-is something wrong?"_

_He wishes he knew how to answer that.  
_

Bobby doesn't continue- he doesn't need to.

"I've been lookin'. But wherever he is, it ain't somewhere Azazel wants to be found."

The word Hell goes unspoken, and Dean thinks he might be sick.

All that he went through. Every day of torture, of pain, of being bled dry and whipped and slashed at until there was nothing left of him to tear into, just for Sam to end up in the same fucking place. 

He shoves the balls of his hands into his eyes, hard enough that he sees colorful spots in the darkness. 

"There is one upside, though." Bobby sighs, breaking the pained silence and starting to flip through an old journal that was piled somewhere beside all the lore books.

Dean barks out a laugh, bitter and short.

"An upside." he deadpans, dragging his face out of his hands for long enough to give Bobby a skeptical glare.

Bobby raises an eyebrow back at him, and manages to find the page he was looking for.

"Yeah, believe it or not. See, back in that town, Azazel was trying to raise an army of Hell. Get one of his demon kids to lead em' to victory, or something like that. But I ain't seen any demon activity in months, besides the occasional cattle death or crop failure. Wherever Sam is, he's not going quietly."

Dean tries not to let hope flutter up in his stomach, but he latches onto the news in desperation.

"You think he's alive."

Bobby nods. 

"I always thought he was alive. It was just a matter of if he was still human enough to consider him living."

There's no real words that could describe how Dean feels. He's exhausted, bone tired, but also reeling from adrenaline, with way too many emotions to process swirling through his brain. If anything, it kind of feels like he's been hit by a train. 

He pinches the bridge of his nose.

"Bobby, I... what the hell?" he sighs, staring up at the ceiling. 

Bobby shuts his journal with a huff, leaning back in a mirror of Dean's pose.

"Good question."

"I mean, I thought Sam was the one who brought me back. How the hell am I even sitting here?" he asks to nobody in particular, fully aware that Bobby's just as confused as he is.

"You think I got any idea? I ain't never heard of anything with the mojo to pull a soul out of Hell before."

Dean shakes his head, but welcomes the feeling of determination that's starting to form out of his anger. He would take a half-baked plan and a direction to drive over sitting on his ass processing his feelings any day.

"So I say we find out. Get some damn answers. And if this thing, demon or not, can get into Hell, maybe it knows where Sam is." 

Bobby thinks it over for a second before nodding just slightly, snatching a particularly well-worn book from the top of his pile.

"It's as good a plan as any, I guess." he sighs, and watches Dean out of the corner of his eye with a slight smile.

"It's good to have you back, kid."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> chapter 2 baby!! i hope this feels in-character enough and not like the emotions are switching too violently-i just had to get the exposition out of the way. next chapter will be sams pov but cas will be introduced after that! anyway hope yall enjoyed!


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *mario voice* herea we gooooo  
> its rowenas time to shine!! i will admit that there are a lot of loose ends in this chapter that i may or may not remember to close up sooo . hey. but yeah. chapter 3!

Sam lies in a raggedy bed, a single ashy sheet draped over his shivering body. He tries to squeeze his eyes shut to block out the persistent dry mouth, cracking lips beading blood down his chin, but when he attempts to lick them to provide some moisture, his sandy tongue just sticks to the skin. 

He's never been one for drugs or drinking before. Of course, he went to the spare party in college, and sue him, he'd been in California- a joint or two never hurt anyone before. But all in all, he would always choose to be alert and present over the feeling of intoxication, unless he was really having a terrible day.

In other words, withdrawal was a new feeling to him.

It really fucking sucked, he decided.

The thin mattress did little to ease the painful aches of his muscles, not to mention the absolutely pounding headache or persistent cold. Azazel had clearly felt no need to ease him into the sensation- he hadn't even bothered to give Sam a bottle of water. 

But physical pain he could deal with. Physical pain he was used to, broken bones and stab wounds a common theme of his rather fucked up childhood.

It was the cravings that he couldn't stand.

They only got stronger the more time he spent away from it, and he hated his body for it's uncontrollable thoughts. He hated the dryness of his throat and the crying thirst, and hated, hated the way he felt so damn strong hopped up on blood in a way he hadn't felt since Dean died. It disgusted him, enraged him, and somewhere deep down, terrified him, because there was nowhere in his own mind he could hide from the knowledge that it felt _good_. He wanted to tear at his own skin, to rip off the layers of persistent discomfort and to rip out the demon in him, an unclean feeling so strong he felt like he could scrub and scrub in a shower for hours and never get clean.

God, he would have killed for a shower. Even a cramped, humid motel bathroom with mildew coating the ceiling and spiders climbing the walls sounded like heaven to him, exhausted to the bone and yet unable to calm his pounding heartbeat long enough to fall asleep. 

It was the nights that were always the worst. So far, the days he could manage, biting his lips and bouncing a knee to ignore the growing pit in his stomach, but at night, laying in the pitch darkness with nothing but his desperate, furious thoughts, there wasn't much he could do to fight it off. And it would only get worse, he knew that- as of now, the doses were small and the time in between mercifully long, but Azazel knew exactly what he was doing. And knowing that every hour, in a different layer of Hell where time moved so much quicker, his brother was spending days in torment worse than he could imagine, was killing him from the inside out.

He was going to tear Azazel apart, and it wasn't going to be quick.

As if hearing his own name echo through Sam's mind, there's a tap of footsteps as the demon himself creeps into the doorway, yellow eyes shining unnaturally in the low light.

"Heya, Sammy." he grins in that way that he does, slipping into Sam's tiny quarters with purpose in his stride.

There is a shuffle as he digs through a small, ancient cabinet in the corner that Sam's never touched, and his eyes dart around the corners of the room. He seems to be looking for something in particular, his focus not entirely directed on Sam.

"What do you want?" Sam croaks, voice hoarse and barely audible but dripping with malice.

He manages to sit up in his bed with a painful crack of his spine, Azazel's normally gleeful and focused smile fading from his face, replaced by a twist of something unrecognizable. Sam notices with extra scrutiny the flimsiness of his usual callous attitude, something unusual for the demon who seems to have forgotten how to feel any emotion other than malevolence.

"Drink." he says, tossing a dented plastic water bottle at Sam, who barely manages to catch it. "We're getting a change of scenery." 

Sam twists off the cap without hesitation and gulps down the water with fervor, draining it to the very last drop even though his stomach feels full. It's lukewarm at best and tastes like dirt, but it brings sweet relief to his parched body, even as he has a vague feeling of self-loathing for accepting anything from the demon. (It's sort of background noise to his life at this point.) After the last of the bottle is empty, he finally processes Azazel's other words, and raises an eyebrow, watching the demon move through the room like a cornered rabbit staring down a hawk. He's growing more careless as his search efforts yield no results, jaw tense, and Sam recognizes the twist in his expression as clear annoyance.

"What?" he says warily, interrupted by a fit of coughing, the water sitting wrong in his throat.

Azazel sighs through gritted teeth, seeming legitimately frustrated for possibly the first time in his long and storied life. It certainly feels like it to Sam.

"We're moving, Sam, because your little angel pals have gotten their holy hands into some hellfire," he turns to face Sam, "and they're really starting to _get. on. my. nerves._ " he spits out, enunciating each of the last few words with annoyance.

"Angels?" Sam exclaims incredulously. "What were angels doing around here?" 

He is aware of the danger of provoking a pissed off demon, letting the question hang in the air but tensing up in case of emergency. Azazel says nothing to elaborate, though, and Sam watches him carefully as he seems to be unable to find whatever he's searching for, eyes darkening, and in realization, finds himself grinning just a little against the protests of his bleeding lips.

"You're afraid of them, aren't you."

Azazel stops short, cold eyes flicking to pin down Sam with their stare. He can't help but squirm under the scrutiny, but raises his chin in defiance as he attempts to keep the stare.

"Oh, I'm not afraid of a few cloud-jumping nuns, kiddo. I'm _afraid_ that they're going to do something _stupid_ , and mess up months of meticulous work, because they have feathers stuffed where their brains should be." he snaps back, the confidence slipping back into his voice alongside anger.

Sam shrinks back as the demon's gaze flicks off to somewhere else, letting out a tense breath. He tries unsuccessfully to fight off another wave of shivers.

"Since when can angels get into Hell?" 

Azazel stares off into the distance with a slight eye roll.

"Since always, Sammy. Angels rank higher than most demons. It's just not easy, and it's not meant to happen. Get up." he commands, grabbing Sam by his bloody shirt collar and dragging him from the bed onto his shaky, sore legs.

Sam stumbles forward, skin crawling at the touch. He watches Azazel lift up his mattress, hand feeling through the rusty bedframe, and with a noise of triumph, he pulls it back out holding a small, brown bag. It looks almost like a hex bag, but larger and unmarked. Sam doesn't ask, but throws a pointed glance at it.

"Protection spell. Take it with ya." Azazel explains, tossing it to Sam who catches it with the instinct of a hunter. 

"Didn't take you for the nurturing type." Sam says dryly.

He doesn't want to pocket the spell bag, but he's learned pretty quickly not to waste his breath arguing with Azazel, so he swallows his discomfort and shoves it into the back of his jeans.

Azazel shrugs, clapping him on the shoulder.

"I would prefer it if you kept breathing."

Sam pulls back from his hand. He doesn't think he'll ever get used to even being near Azazel.

"Oh, get off your high horse and follow me." the demon says pointedly from where he stands in the doorway, clearly noticing Sam's flinch.

Sam grits his teeth. His wounded pride stings, but he forces his exhausted body to stumble to the dank hallway outside, cringing yet keeping steady as Azazel grasps his shoulder and guides him through the gate spell. He's never been one to handle the feeling of helplessness well, especially coupled with the knowledge that the one creature he hates more than anything else in existence holds every power over him, and he fixes Azazel with a murderous glare.

He isn't quite given the time to be pissed that he wants, though, because the second he steps into the corridor, cloaked in shadows on either side, he is bombarded with a stifling pressure clamping around his body, muffling his hearing.

"What did you do to this place?" he growls, keeling forward against the buzz of the heavy air, his ears popping as though he were on an airplane.

"Heavy duty warding. Unfortunately, you're not quite human enough for it." Azazel explains, ushering Sam forward with a subtle kick to the ankle.

His word choice is pointed, and admittedly, it hurts. Sam bites down on the inside of his cheek, staggering forward and straitening his shoulders as best as he can.

"Right. You're not scared." he snorts, trying to cover the hurt and sound smug as he passes into an area so dark he can barely see Azazel ahead of him.

There's a harsh laugh that echoes across the empty passage.

"You would be taking precautions too if a bunch of your feathered friends sieged Hell and snatched one of your souls right from the pit."

That shuts Sam up fairly well for a moment. 

"They took a soul?" he asks tentatively.

Azazel sighs, as though reluctant to continue.

"As much as I hate to admit it, yes. Those halos broke our deal, stole your brother and dragged him back to Earth."

Sam's breath catches in his throat, stumbling over his heavy feet.

"Dean... Dean's alive?" he asks in shock, voice cracking.

Azazel doesn't pause to wait for him, forcing Sam to rush shakily forward to catch the glimpse of his silhouette in the blackness.

"Yup." the demon replies, popping the P in annoyance. 

He doesn't seem all that worried about his lack of leverage, and if anything, he's just unwilling to deal with Sam's range of emotions. But Sam doesn't bother to analyze Azazel's expressions. He's a million miles away, drifting from his aching body.

_Alive. He's alive._

His mind buzzes with a million doubts, unwilling to accept the reality. He hadn't allowed himself to hope for a miracle like that in months, to believe that after all the stupid decisions and death they would somehow end up alright. It had been his burden, his responsibility, to rescue his brother, to shoulder on the weight of his life in the futile hope that one day, he would make something good out of his curse- he owed Dean that much. 

But he was alive. He had to be.

He had to be ok.

Sam, while still struggling under the thick compression of the warding, feels a heaviness fall from his shoulders.

"Why would angels save Dean from Hell?" Sam asks weakly after a moment of shocked silence, his footsteps heavy.

All of the sudden, as he takes a step forward, the oppressive pressure surrounding his senses lets up with a pop, and he nearly trips forward, unbalanced.

Azazel stops at the same moment, tapping his fingers on his arm and scanning the area around him.

"Because they're angels, Sam. They don't _like me._ " he sighs, as though it's the most obvious thing in the world.

Sam rolls his eyes.

"Yeah, I get that. I just don't understand why now."

There's a shuffle and a click as Azazel runs his hand across a stained concrete wall, fiddling with something Sam can't see. After a heartbeat, he straightens up and smooths out his suit, seemingly satisfied with the work, and begins to make his way to Sam's side.

"I don't know why you bother concerning yourself with the politics of Heaven, Sam, it's not as though you're going to end up there." he sighs out in one long breath, slapping a hand on Sam's shoulder without giving him a glance, and then it's like the floor has dropped out beneath Sam's feet.

He's not unfamiliar with teleportation. It's how he gets dragged around Hell these days, and yet it's always just a little disorienting, so when the ground returns to his feet and his body finally remembers how to be solid, he struggles to adjust his eyes to the light, however low, and nearly collapses on his own unsteady legs, falling forward a few feet.

The room the two stand in now is, unexpectedly, nicer than the previous. It is bathed in dim light from the ceiling, a tall, arched thing almost meant to mimic a church, and it seems to be somewhat furnished, with a strange, half-throne and half-altar looking structure looming at the front. 

"Wait here." Azazel says, but when Sam looks to him for some explanation, he's gone.

It wasn't as though Sam was going anywhere. The room's only entrance was clearly sealed with some kind of spell work, visible in the form of a shimmering purple-hued force field. A little on the nose, he thinks, but nonetheless he pokes at it in curiosity, only to be slammed backwards onto his back as it sends a light electric shock and all the force of a door ramming into him through his body. 

Sam groans, eyes focusing on the lightly sketched runes coating the room's ceiling. His back cries out in protest, already sore and knotted in a million different places, and his head pounds relentlessly, but something in him doesn't really mind, just letting the cool concrete beneath him lessen the sting from the cuts on his arms and legs. The room is blissfully quiet and free of spectators, a rarity for Sam's new life as the star of Hell's Next Top Model. He waits, letting his breath flatten out into a calm rhythm. He has no idea where he is, or honestly, even what plane of existence he's on, but no amount of disorientation can shake the lightness from his limbs. Rotting away somewhere deep in the underbelly of Hell, he should be miserable, but his brain is trained on Earth. With Dean. Dean, who's alive again. Who could go out and live a life, buy a house and a golden retriever if he really wanted. (Not that he ever would, but it was about the freedom.) Hell, he can go to China for all Sam cares- just as long as he isn't being dangled over the fire like a piece of meat anymore, just so long as he can keep breathing.

And maybe there was some childish part of his brain that still thought he could be rescued.

 _Would Dean even want to rescue me?_ The sobering part of Sam's brain asks him, and his mood flattens a bit. 

Desperate to keep his mind from spiraling, he pushes himself up to his knees, taking another wide glance around at the room. There isn't much to look at, not really- it's about the size of an average church chapel, with some light debris piled up on the sides and a table and chair littered with decaying paper placed sort of haphazardly to his right. He can't really imagine what it's purpose is supposed to be, other than some abandoned storage room repurposed for Azazel's needs, and yet it's a welcome environment; one that, for once, is not actively designed to make his life worse. (He's aware that's a low bar, but it's true.)

Wandering to the front, he notices a newer, more intact chair behind the strange altar. It's made of some dark wood, and despite the many pentagrams carved into the back, it looks sturdy and fairly comfortable. Sam shrugs, dusting it off with a hand, and sits down with a thump, allowing his legs and exhausted body a brief moment of rest. Despite Azazel's many vague and ominous complaints, not to mention the strange interference of angels (which Sam has learned by now are not quite the upstanding citizens they're made out to be), he almost feels calm, an emotion he's learning to grow unfamiliar with. Maybe it's the faint, previously downtrodden hope rising once more in his stomach, the new surroundings, or the satisfaction in watching Azazel finally experience some doubt, but for the first time in months, he's.. well, he's ok.

Naturally, that's exactly the moment at which someone tries to assassinate him.

-

At first he's almost unaware of what's happening. He feels his muscles seize, and his body lock up, unable to move, and then he's aware that there's a voice speaking incantations and he's pinned up against a wall. Everything feels blurred and fuzzy, but exhaustion is quickly drowned out by adrenaline, and he regains enough sense to struggle against the invisible chains, searching the room wildly for his assailant.

She reveals herself just as he does, stepping unharmed through the darkness of the purple barrier, and he realizes with a simple glance what she is.

A witch.

She's short, adorned in a simple yet elegant black dress, and she bends over an ancient-looking book, waving a hand over it and speaking in a hushed voice. (Sam can still here the thick Scottish accent behind her words, though.) Her bright red hair is tied back into a bun with a thick ribbon, nervous eyes glowing a shade of purple as she reads, and Sam's panic suddenly flares when he realizes there's a snaking pressure constricting at his throat.

Instinctually, he lets out a choked yell, but it comes out as more of a wheeze, and he claws at his neck, but there's nothing physical to pull away. The witch's shaky voice grows in confidence, although she still creeps at the side of the wall with her back pressed up against it, clearly scared of Sam's retaliation. 

"S...stop-" he tries to croak out, but to no avail.

He resorts to a more direct method, trying to focus his attention on the flimsy old desk. Black spots creep into his vision. His powers, for a terrifying moment, seem inches out of reach, but he manages to regain a grasp on them, and with heaving effort, whips the desk across the room towards the witch. 

She clearly doesn't see it coming, and only has time to widen her eyes as it barrels directly into her, nearly snapping in half. As it does so, Sam crashes to the ground and gasps in air through his bruised throat, limbs tingling from it's absence. He hears a muffled curse from the wreckage, and scrambles his way to a weakly defensive position.

"Who are you?" he barks warily, preparing himself to kill whatever demon it might be.

A beat of silence.

"I'm not inclined to have a nice chat over tea, if that's what your asking." she yells back behind a half of the table, clearly flipping through the pages of her book.

There is no further movement, but Sam's hearing is good enough that he catches the tail end of a whispered incantation, and has just enough time to brace himself as she shoves the wood from her path, tossing the shredded pages of the book to the side with a shrug.

He stands his ground, eyes squeezed shut against an expected barrage of magic.

It never comes.

After a few seconds of silence, he pries open one eyelid, taking in with some slight amusement the equally shocked expression of the witch, who repeats the incantation hurriedly, but to no avail. There's a brief moment of standstill, with Sam holding his position on one side of the room, and the witch standing with a hand outstretched and an expression that suggests she's gravely aware of just how screwed she is. (A slight buzz in his pocket reminds Sam of the damn protection spell.) He's about to regain his instincts and either exorcise or kill her, placing one hand on the altar next to him to steady himself and raising the other one in the air facing towards her, but just as he does, he notices that something feels off.

He pulls back his hand for just a second. The witch, who stands with her eyes closed and hands raised, anticipating a blow, seems to falter, as though she'd expected to be dead by now, and he hates that he notices it, but there's a striking absence of sound in the air. Ever since he was first forced to drink the demon blood, he could hear the heartbeat of a demon three rooms down, yet she gives off no sound, no smell of sulfur- not even a bad energy.

"You're... not a demon." Sam states, confused.

The witch cracks an eye open, uncovering her face for a moment. Her now-green eyes dart around the room, but she seems to find no worthy explanation for her questions there, and returns her sharp gaze to Sam.

"...No." she replies slowly, clearly unsure of what to say.

Sam is taken aback, a little shocked.

"You're human?" he exclaims bewilderedly, straitening his posture to something he hopes looks more respectable, "And you're playing assassin in _Hell?_ "

She gives him a half-shrug. It's almost comical.

"No hard feelings?"

Sam nearly laughs, but contains himself. Despite the burning in his throat, he doesn't feel particularly threatened as he stares her down. It's not that he's stupid enough to underestimate a witch, but she's not quite the rage-filled suicide bomber that usually comes bursting down his door when some halfway important pompous demon decides he needs to be murdered. (God, when did his life get so fucked up that he has a 'regular' kind of assassin? He sighs inwardly.) She doesn't really seem to actually want him dead, nor does she seem all that enthusiastic to be in the same room with him at all.

"And what makes a living human insane enough to care about the politics of Hell? What, are you a hunter, or something?"

The witch scoffs at the notion, seeming to lose a bit of her fear in exchange for exasperation, although she makes sure to keep the altar between the two of them.

"God, no." she dismisses, shuddering dramatically, and then scanning him over again, as though deciding how much to give away. "I'm just... having a bad week." 

Sam raises an eyebrow, shuffling his feet in the dust. He gets the sense that neither party is all that inclined to restart the fight, yet keeps his defenses up, watching her skirt near the corners of the room.

"Hell of a week."

She nods slowly, fixing him with baffled and somewhat skittish expression. The air is deathly still, with only the noise of the crumbling wood to interrupt their standoff, but after a moment, she raises a finger and starts to speak.

"Now, not to seem ungrateful, but... it does seem you haven't killed me yet." she points out, trying to regain some amount of composure by clearing her throat and dusting off her dress.

Sam sighs.

"Seems like it." he says simply.

There's a briefly awkward silence. 

"It's just not very... on brand." 

It's Sam's turn to scoff, massaging his throat to shake off the last of the spell's after effects.

"I wasn't aware I had a brand." 

The witch looks a bit disbelieving, leaning up against a wall as she moves. Sam notices she's limping on one of her ankles.

"Oh yes. It's quite brutal." she informs him heartily, before squinting up at him in scrutiny. "You don't get out much, do you?" 

Sam laughs bitterly under his breath. He thinks of the demons that would crowd the doorway of his old "throne" room, blinking up at him in terror or morbid curiosity, and the many he'd killed through Azazel's force of hand, and wonders what kind of bullshit mythos the old bastard had spun about him to all the low-ranking minions.

"Not really. Guess I've got a reputation by now, though." 

The witch straightens up a bit, looking lost in her own recollections, half-rolling her eyes.

"Ugh, you've got no clue the things they say about you." she huffs in exasperation, as though recalling an annoying memory, before shaking her head and continuing. "It's just that I thought you'd be more... murderous."

"Uh... sorry?" 

She waves a hand dismissively.

"Oh, don't be. In fact, I'm in something of a... situation myself, so it works out. I would very much prefer to cut a deal than be brutally slain."

She feigns disinterest, clearly dragging Sam in to ask more questions. He's aware she's probably scheming something, but sue him, he's curious.

"Fine, I'll bite. What do you have that I want?"

She raises her chin, just a hint of self-satisfaction in her face.

"Well, it's like you said, I'm human. I don't belong here- I was forced into this, and I can give you the name and location of my employer. Just so long as you let me go free."

Sam considers the offer for a moment, but before he can open his mouth to reply, another voice echoes through the room.

"Hm. Counter-offer: we torture you, you confess, and then we kill you. Best of both worlds- for me, at least." Azazel interjects with a smile, his words dripping with malicious smugness.

Sam bristles at his presence, shoulders stiffening. He hadn't noticed the demon's return, and inwardly curses his negligence at the familiar slimy voice as a figure emerges through the doorway. The witch does the same, the tension returning to her posture, her eyes widening a fraction as they search for the nearest escape route. Azazel strides forward with unafraid purpose, and she stumbles back a bit on her injured ankle.

"Ah- ok, ok, point made! His name's Crowley- it's Crowley." she yelps hurriedly, her hands flying back up to protect her face.

Azazel stops, staring down at her with that familiar conceited expression Sam has come to hate so much. It's the kind that infuriates him to no end, in all of it's self-assured glory, the kind that he wears when you've done something just as he predicted you would and he pauses to preen his own feathers.

"Crowley, you say... Sam, write that down." he mocks, snapping as though to summon Sam like a butler. 

Sam rolls his eyes. Azazel is unbothered, cracking his knuckles with a sigh and moving forward to pull the witch to her full height. She looks just as disgusted as she is frightened at the touch, trying to pry off his hand from the collar of her dress, but he holds tight.

"Well, then. Thank you for all your help! It's been oh-so-informative, but I'm afraid your services are no longer needed." he continues cheerfully, raising a hand into the air, and she turns her head away, tensing up in preparation for the final blow.

"Wait!"

Sam doesn't realize at first that the voice had come from himself. He looks down at his outstretched hands, and shrinks back from the scrutiny of both other figures- Azazel's predatory, expectant gaze, and the witch's shocked one. _Why did I say that?_ he curses himself internally, biting the inside of his cheek.

"Don't kill her." he follows up weakly, scrambling to come up with a defense.

Azazel gives him a knowing smile that makes Sam want to start throwing punches, but he does drop the witch, who buckles on her twisted ankle.

"Oh, Sammy. You and your bleeding heart." he chides. "One of these days you've got to learn how to run an effective kingdom."

The demon turns on his heel, and makes his way to Sam's side, never breaking the unnerving eye contact.

"See, when someone tries to kill you, you don't _usually_ get teary-eyed about it."

He claps a hand on Sam's shoulder, and all of the sudden, there's a veiled threat in his voice. It's disguised in layers of confidence and slimy manipulation, but Sam can hear it, and Azazel knows it. His skin crawls in the close proximity.

"You make an example of them."

Time seems to slow as he flicks out a hand, fingers moving to snap, face twisting in a rare reflection of rage. 

Sam doesn't feel his feet move, but they do, flinging him forward just in time to snatch Azazel by the wrist, and that's when everything goes to shit.

He doesn't really mean to send the demon flying. Honestly. I mean, admittedly, he'd wanted to break the guy's neck for a long time, but at the moment there had been nothing but instinct in his mind, so when his fingers connected with Azazel's skin and there was a small explosion, he'd been just as shocked as everyone else in the room.

His ears ring, but he somehow stands his ground, making out the thud of bones against solid material as Azazel is slammed into the nearest wall.

It's a sight that freezes him in place, the tension in the air thick enough to cut with a knife. Sam stares down, bewildered at his own hand that crackles with static electricity, and is dully aware of the warm, wet feeling of blood dripping down his nose. 

"My god." the stunned witch coughs out, pushing herself up to her elbows, her hair blown back from the force of the shockwave.

Her eyes are just as wide as Sam's, and her gaze darts back and forth between him and Azazel. Sam can't tear his eyes away from Azazel's slowly shifting body as it straightens up and he shoves rubble from his suit, bones cracking as they slip back into place.

"Impressive." he comments with intrigue in his voice, clearing his throat, but there's no mistaking that his stare is positively murderous.

Sam gulps.

"Thanks?"

-

The warded cell bars slam in his face.

"That went well." Sam says dryly, picking himself off from the floor where he'd been tossed.

The witch does the same, trying to maneuver around her handcuffs as she rises to her knees.

"Tell me about it." she agrees with exasperation. 

The room they sit in is fairly large for a jail, but despairingly empty, with stained grey walls dripping with dirty water and a big expanse of empty floor marking it off. There's a rung in the wall made to hang chains from, a rusty drain, and one bare bones metal bench that might have once had a cushion, but it had long since turned to dust, and nothing else. Just a big, metal and concrete square to relax in. Sam lets out a long-suffering sigh.

"Luxurious." the witch huffs flatly, voicing his thoughts, and taking a very tentative seat on the old bench, trying to keep as little of herself as possible from touching it.

The two of them settle into uneasy positions, on edge and watching out the bars for the shadow of another person.

"I didn't really want my day to end like this." Sam mutters, complaining to nobody in particular as he stares at the ceiling in contempt.

" _You_ wanted this to go differently?" the witch snorts pointedly, gesturing to herself. 

Sam laughs half-heartedly.

"I guess I should ask your name. Considering we're roommates now." he points out somewhat sarcastically after a bit of silence.

She seems to mull it over for a bit, but doesn't deliberate for long, clearly giving in to her lack of leverage.

"Rowena." she tells him, mockingly bowing from where she sits.

"I'm Sam." 

She seems a little surprised at that.

"It's really Sam?" she questions, almost sounding disappointed.

"Uh. Yeah. What did you expect?" he asks, raising an eyebrow.

She shrugs.

"I'm not sure. 'Sam' just doesn't quite strike fear into the heart of the enemy."

Sam chuckles a little.

"I don't really live up to the legend, do I."

It's less of a question as it is a statement, and she shrugs again, a small half-smile tugging at her mouth.

"Not exactly."

There's a quiet lapse in conversation as she breathes deeply, shifting uncomfortably where she's perched and absentmindedly picking flecks of rust and rubble from her crumpled dress. Sam notices her hurt ankle doesn't seem to be bothering her anymore, and he's quietly envious, his own body protesting against every small movement.

"You wanna know why I didn't kill you." Sam sighs, fixing her with a pointed stare.

She cocks her head as though in thought, aloofly gesturing with a hand her agreement.

"I am curious." 

The words 'I tried to do it first' hang in the air, but she doesn't voice them, as though careful not to remind him. Sam leans backwards, avoiding her gaze.

"I don't know." he admits. "It just didn't feel right, killing a living person. It's not like it's the first time someone's tried to murder me, anyway."

 _I couldn't do it._ He thinks. _I couldn't do it, because you're the only living thing I've met in months and I would never forgive myself if I let you die when I could have protected you. I couldn't do it because I didn't want to prove my dad right._

He doesn't voice any of those more personal thoughts, and just picks at his fingernails. Rowena guards her reaction, but the amusement is clear in her eyes.

"Quite a life you live."

"Tell me about it." he laughs bitterly, trying to snap himself out of the pit of his darker thoughts. "And you?"

"What about me?"

She asks it cautiously, crossing her arms.

"Y'know. Contract killer in Hell." he points out dryly. "How does someone end up there?"

She sighs.

"I have an ungrateful brat for a son, that's how." she sniffs, bitterness in her voice.

"Some loving family." 

"I would happily tell you everything I know about him, you know. Locking me in this root cellar is excessive." she mutters, gesturing in disgust to her surroundings. 

Sam gives her a helpless gesture.

"Yeah, well. Take it up with HR." he scoffs, raising his cuffed hands.

"You could always call off your boss." Rowena says pointedly.

Sam laughs at the notion. It would be nice, wouldn't it?

"He doesn't give a shit what I say." 

Rowena huffs, leaning backwards and staring up at the ceiling in defeat.

"What a pair we make." she comments, and Sam hums an amused agreement.

He wonders absentmindedly what he would have done in the same situation 4 months ago. Sitting in Hell, with a witch who tried to kill him, locked in jail because he refused to let her die. It wasn't exactly a hunter's dream, was it? Not to mention the returning dry mouth and pounding headache, back with a vengeance and much harder to ignore in a locked cell, as he tries to process the events of the day.

The two of them sit with tension for a bit, but it soon becomes abundantly clear that nobody's coming to retrieve them, and the silence lapses into exasperation.

"Could you not just... bend the bars a bit?" Rowena drawls after a while, sounding a little bored as she studies the sketched sigils near the door.

Sam halfheartedly flicks a finger towards the metal, knowing full well it won't work, but willing to try to pass the time. He focuses on the center bar, trying to chase down some last scraps of energy, but his powers are all but exhausted and he slumps backwards, rubbing the bridge of his nose. Not that it would matter- Azazel's long since known how to ward against his power. How he managed to hurt the demon before, Sam has no idea.

"Sorry." he shrugs, and she rests her chin in her hands, not seeming all that surprised. 

"I think my son may have overexaggerated your abilities." she sighs.

"What, I'm not intimidating?" he jokes with a raised eyebrow.

She fixes him with a gaze of mocking sympathy.

"Sweetheart," she quips, "you've got bangs."

-

That night, when he finally drifts off into fitful sleep, the angel in his dreams calls himself Uriel.

Sam likes him the least of them all so far.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hoo boy this chapter took me forever and it seems really choppy to me. but i need to get it done or so help me god, so here it is!! i write sometimes!  
> part of the reason this took so long is because i took nearly a whole week to write out an outline for this monster. thats what you get for not planning out long fics before you write em i guess, and now i have a 4,000 word yet somehow still bare bones outline in my notes. i am fucking crazy but i am free  
> enjoy the chapter, it will not be biblically accurate

Castiel watches with subdued amusement as Dean Winchester drives a blade into his vessel's shoulder. 

It's clearly magical, probably some kind of high caliber weapon to the human, but he feels nothing but a light buzz as it sticks in the muscles and sinew of Jimmy's body.

The man stares at it for a short moment, and then up at Castiel, as though he had somehow expected a differing result. He then steps back, into a position more suited for hand-to-hand combat. It's an entertaining notion- but Castiel simply pulls the knife from where it is buried and drops it, harmlessly, to the floor.

It does little to ease the agitation of the two humans. Of course, they would not be able to know his intentions were pure, nor did they have the gift to sense his grace as so many others did, leaving them defenseless, as they so often were. They exchange a glance, probably frightened, and Castiel easily intercepts another blow from the older one, turning on his heels to lull the man into a deep sleep.

Despite his gentle manner and non-threatening body language, the Righteous Man seems to stay fearful, as though his friend were dead (which he is clearly not). Castiel does not see the Novak man as particularly intimidating, and he wishes not for the first time that he could openly expose his true form. Perhaps then, his purpose would be evident.

"We need to talk, Dean." the angel informs him. "Alone."

He is not surprised when there is no response, save for the rush of feet as the man runs to his friend, searching for signs of life. Which, of course, he finds. (Castiel recalls from memories long ago the stubbornness of humans.) He has patience, though, and takes the time to look over where he has appeared. It's an expansive space for his small form, though he cannot be sure of it's purpose. The wooden walls are covered with various symbols from various mythologies, all of which he recognizes as relatively mundane magic, most not even old enough to have originated from a culture that truly knew of angels, yet all together they create a sort of magical buzz that tingles at the edges of his senses. 

"Your friend is alive." Castiel informs Dean after a moment.

He understands the wariness. After all, it had been many years since his kind had last walked the earth, and he had been warned many times of the skepticism of the Righteous Man, irony aside.

"Who are you?" he asks in a voice shaky, yet harsh.

Castiel finds it strange, that he could have lain his fingers on the man's soul and raised him from the fires off hell, yet he knew nothing of the angel's existence. 

"Castiel."

"Yeah, I figured that much. I mean, what are you." Dean snaps, stalking around Castiel on the balls of his feet like a frightened deer.

"I'm an angel of the lord." Castiel informs him, his voice calm and steady.

Dean does not believe him, that much is clear. Were it not for his unconscious friend and useless knife, perhaps he would have laughed aloud.

"Get the hell out of here. There's no such thing." he replies, confident in his own misinformation.

Castiel frowns, although he is not surprised, focusing on Dean's wary but stoic gaze. The man's eyes are a soft green and his light brown hair is ruffled by wind, framing his sharp-featured face with angular precision, reminding Castiel that humans have always been special in their individuality. Each species of nearly every other animal was made up of reproduced copies, and even in heaven, angels donned forms with the same sharp wings and marble-like features, soldiers created for a purpose. Yet humans had always varied in shape, in size, and in features and personalities in a way nearly unmatched. Perhaps that is why they are God's favorite creations, he thinks.

"This is your problem, Dean." Castiel says, his wings shuffling in the ether behind him. "You have no faith."

The bulbs above them shatter in an explosion of light. Dean flinches, but Castiel remains, his wings stretching to their full width, each feather outlined by the fire of the sparks raining down. He feels no particular pride in his true form- it is uniform, yet still Dean's eyes widen at the sight, his face illuminating with flashes of electricity. His hands wander across his pockets, searching desperately for a weapon, yet he finds nothing worthy, tensing up out of instinct. 

After allowing the sight to remain for a few seconds, Castiel releases his hold on the electric fields around him, allowing the lightbulbs to fall still. Dean looks shaken, yet it seems the proof does not comfort him. If anything, he seems angry.

"Some angel you are." he accuses. "You burned out that poor woman's eyes."

Admittedly, Castiel feels a pang of regret, and he ashamedly breaks their eye contact for a moment. The injury had been avoidable, yet his own attempts at discretion had cost the psychic her eyesight. 

"I warned her not to spy on my true form." he sighs, speaking the truth, yet still apologetic- he had not wanted Dean's first interactions with his kind to be marred with such chaos and pain. "It can be overwhelming to humans, and so can my real voice. But you knew that already."

Dean raises an eyebrow. His shoulders seem to relax as Castiel makes no indications of intending harm.

"You mean the gas station and the motel. That was you talking?" he asks incredulously. 

Castiel is made aware once again of the limitations of his vessel. It is rather unassuming, and odd to imagine his real voice coming from. Nonetheless, he nods.

Dean makes an amused sound, although his face does not reflect joy.

"Buddy, next time, lower the volume." 

"That was my mistake. Certain people, special people, can perceive my true visage. I thought you would be one of them." Castiel says truthfully. "I was wrong."

He doesn't feel particular joy in admitting his mistakes, yet the words come easily, almost a familiar conversation. His judgments have never been the most accurate, after all.

Dean looks him over, clearly forming questions in his mind.

"And what 'visage' are you in now, huh? Holy tax accountant?" 

The angel looks down at his own suit and long coat. He doesn't fully know what about him suggests he would be a mathematician of any kind, yet he understands the man's question anyways. Jimmy Novak's soul presses up against his consciousness in a reminder that he has been gifted the body from another human.

"This? This is a vessel." he says, and Dean's eyes narrow once more.

"You're possessing some poor bastard?" the human asks in a way that does not suggest he is really asking a question.

Demons and their bad reputations, Castiel thinks. Of course Dean would assume the worst.

"He's a devout man. He actually prayed for this."

Dean rolls his eyes, and Castiel frowns at him. At the very least, he has stopped searching the room for something to use as a weapon, but still he refused to allow the angel to move an inch closer, backing up each time, his anger unceasing

"Well, I'm not buying what you're selling, so who are you really?" he snaps accusatorily.

Castiel is growing tired of convincing the man that he is, in fact, real. He does not understand why the sight of his wings was not enough to convince Dean- what other creature could present such a vision?

"I told you." he says slowly, fixing Dean with a curious stare.

"Right." the human snorts. "And why would an angel rescue me from Hell?" 

He says it as though it is an obvious fact, something undisputable. As though God did not give kindness and as though the laws of demons were those that ruled the universe, his face concealing the telling desperation of his soul. Castiel watches his face with muted sadness, wondering how any being could go through existence with such little faith, believing so little of that which angels lived to protect.

"Good things do happen, Dean." 

Dean's stoic expression cracks ever so slightly, letting a glimpse of his soul through. His jaw tightens and his fists clench.

"Not in my experience." comes the reply, the smallest waver in his voice betraying him.

Castiel frowns once more.

"What's the matter?"

 _You are chosen by God._ He thinks, yet Dean does not seem to reflect the same views of divinity, his mouth twisted into a permeant scowl. The angel peers past his face and into his soul, which creeps away from the warmth of Castiel's grace, and suddenly understands the anger, the sadness, the turmoil of emotions. It is not directed outwards, but inwards.

"You don't think you deserve to be saved." he thinks aloud.

This makes Dean upset. He gives Castiel a withering glare, yet it seems far away, as though he were looking right through the angel, with the slightest tremble to his posture. He opens his mouth to speak, but closes it again, unable to force the words out. 

Castiel would be lying if he said he understood the way the human mind worked. It had always held some strange fascination to him, yet he could never map out the logic of emotions. They always experienced so many at once, and so often felt one when they should be feeling another, but doubt- doubt was what really made them human. They second-guessed every action, failed and tried again, blamed themselves for pre-written destiny. It seemed difficult, painful, to not understand the meanings of the universe. Really, he didn't know how they did it. And yet here was Dean Winchester, the Sword of Michael, utterly unaware of his own grand design.

"Why'd you do it?" he finally manages to say, in a quiet voice riddled with anger and fear. 

A question that Castiel can answer.

"Because God commanded it." he says confidently, ignoring Dean's skeptical glare. "Because we have work for you."

There is a moment of heavy silence, but Dean's stare only twists into something angrier.

"What the hell is that supposed to mean?" he barks. "'Because God commanded it?' What, God knows me by name, and decided I was the lucky winner who got to come back from the dead?" 

His voice grows in volume, making it's way to a shout, and Castiel raises his chin. His patience has a limit, after all, and it draws the line at explaining the will of the Lord to a human. 

"I-"

"And why not Sam?" Dean interrupts once more, his torrent of words dropping their venom and their volume at the mention of his brother.

He looks up at the angel with something in between furious blame and desperate hope, and Castiel nearly shies away from the intensity of the expression.

"...We are trying. But your brother is much harder to reach than you were."

It is a simple answer, but true. Dean seems to be reassured by it, if only slightly, yet he continues to speak accusatorily. 

"Well, try harder. I mean, if 'God commanded it', how hard can it be?" he snaps mockingly.

Castiel fixes the man with a pointed stare, his composure fading. Humans may be curious creatures, but they certainly never know when to stand back.

"It will be done. It is not your place, nor is it mine, to question Heaven's mandate." 

Dean remains unimpressed.

"So what, you want me to be your puppet? Do a little murdering on the side, in the name of God? That it?"

Castiel misses the tail end of his sentence as a telltale ringing sounds in his ears.

_Castiel. Your garrison needs you._

He looks at Dean somewhat apologetically- it's a rather inconvenient time to cut off the conversation, but he knows all he must. If Castiel's brothers and sisters need him, he has to be there.

"You are chosen, Dean. Remember that, if you remember nothing else." Castiel says hurriedly, gathering up his wings and his body as he senses the presence and location of the other being contacting him.

Dean begins another sentence, but it is cut off with the rush of feathers as Castiel takes off, the barn disappearing in a flash as he races towards heaven.

-

"What is it?" he asks as soon as he arrives, tucking his true form back within his vessel.

The space around him is familiarly well-lit, covered in sleek metal and bare of furniture or decoration. It is a place to regroup, and within it, four angels stand in a stiff semi-circle, awaiting Castiel's arrival. He knows two well and recognizes the others.

"Castiel." Jehoel greets with a slight nod. "I am sorry to interrupt you, but we are experiencing... troubles from Hell, and we need you to take charge of the situation. It is rather urgent."

Castiel nods.

"What is it you need me to do?"

Jehoel looks around at the other three angels that accompany them. His gaze lands on Adriel.

"Take Adriel. We have seen proof that a small group of demons have gotten their hands on an angel blade, or some other heavenly weapon, and we must cut them off before they return to Hell with it. If there is an angel in danger, find them."

Castiel feels cold at the idea. Demons have been known on occasion to imprison or even drain angels of their grace, yet the mass death that could occur if they had the ability to kill angels at any whim would be devastating. 

"We will." he confirms, walking to Adriel's side.

She raises her chin, her unfamiliar vessel adorned in a grey suit. He's so used to seeing her true form, he barely even recognized her when he first touched down- in fact, he's pretty sure she's not been to Earth in at least a few million years.

"Approach the gate. I will send you both to the closest location we are aware of." Jehoel says. "And Castiel, be aware. The Rising of the Witnesses is beginning, and Dean WInchester is at the very center. Do look after him."

-

The area they arrive in smells strongly of sulfur. It is dark and misty, and a large and imposing building looms in front of the two angels. 

"Is this really where they would keep such a valuable weapon?" Adriel questions skeptically, looking up and down at the rust-covered, metal structure, abandoned and crumbling.

Castiel gives it the same once-over, noticing the absence of angel warding. It does look a bit low-security.

"Knowing demons, it could be. But perhaps Jehoel simply sent us to the closest location he could." he says.

The two of them begin their approach in sync, the comforting cold metal of their blades against their wrists, the silence of the night penetrating, and somewhat eerie. Castiel is pretty certain that they will not find what they're looking for there, but he can tell that there either were or still are demons within it. He listens carefully to the whisper of wind through the shattered glass of the windows as they get closer to what looks to be the entrance, an iron door coated with rust.

"Is it warded? Trapped, maybe?" Adriel asks, placing a hand on the door once it's in reach.

She pauses, but Castiel continues forward confidently.

"No." he assures her. 

It is clearly a point where the demons had passed through, but not their destination. With a slight push, the door creaks open, it's lock already broken. As it does so, a wave of cool and musty air rushes past the two angels, tinted with the faint scents of blood, rat droppings, and various metals. 

"It's large." Adriel says simply, taking in the sight of the dark interior.

It is. Rather than being made up of many different rooms, it is one huge space, with a roof many feet above the heads of their human vessels and large swaths of dusty flooring. Metal piping and abandoned machinery Castiel cannot identify coat the walls and corners, and he hears the pattering of animal feet as they run from the noise of his entrance. He scans the ground nearest to him illuminated by the glow of the moon outside and makes out several sets of footprints and a small trail of blood, still coagulating in the open air.

"They were here. It hasn't been too long." 

Instinctually, they split up and move in separate directions, Adriel searching left and Castiel right. He watches a set of two footprints, one heavy boot and one lighter sneaker, make their way to the back of the building behind a conveyer belt long broken down, but as he rounds the corner, he loses their path in a maze of crates and the wind from a shattered window blowing the dust away. If he can find some DNA or something from one of the demons, perhaps he could track them, but without a warm trail, the time it would take to find them could be more than they could spare.

All of the sudden, his companion's voice breaks the thick silence from a good distance away.

"This is angel blood." Adriel remarks with subdued shock, her voice echoing across the walls.

Castiel feels his hopes sink. _I had prayed they had not taken a hostage._

"We have to hurry. Is there anything here they may have used?"

"Maybe. They could have disposed of several objects around here, but I do not know where to look." she admits, and Castiel makes his way over, searching for her among the various wreckages. 

She's standing at the foot of a massive hill of junkyard material, made of sheet metal, rubber, and gears.

"I don't recognize a lot of these parts." she sighs, picking up a cog and twirling it between her hands.

"You haven't seen Earth in quite a while." Castiel remarks with some humor, eyeing the blood splatters that mar the ground.

"A few hundred years. And much longer since I've visited."

She shrugs, and kneels down to examine the drag marks and footprints near her feet while he looks through the pile for any trace of demonic interference. He can certainly sense the faint buzz of angel grace overpowering the air near the blood, yet there are weaker signals below that, and as he throws away a pipe, he spots a dusting of yellow sulfur.

"A knife." he points out triumphantly.

It's metal hilt glints just slightly. Intrigued, Adriel lifts a piece of sheet metal from over it's blade, revealing a shattered and jagged dagger, cut short halfway through. 

"And you can use this?"

"I should be able to." he says, picking it up carefully with one hand.

The traces of demonic presence are still clear on it, although it appears to be a re-purposed human weapon, stained with blood both old and new. 

"I believe they travelled on foot. It seems something is keeping them from being able to use their full powers." he remarks.

He glances back at the broken window he'd passed earlier, and eyes it with curiosity, but first, places the dagger in the cradle of both his hands and reaches for the demonic signature that coats it.

 _Show me._ He urges, power flowing from his grace to his vessel's fingers. As it meets the rusted hilt, he is suddenly overwhelmed with sensation.

"North." he gasps abruptly, stumbling back an inch to steady himself.

Waves of color flash across his vision, and he can sense the presence of the demons only a few miles away, tugging at his grace like a compass needle. 

"You're certain?" 

Adriel's voice breaks through his shock. She straightens herself, ready to fly but awaiting his instruction with a suddenly focused expression.

"Yes." he confirms, gathering himself to sever the connection with a snap.

He lets the broken blade fall to the ground, clarity returning to his vision. The stained and cracked floors of the factory come into focus, and he hears Adriel's wings flap, her sudden absence noticeable at his shoulder.

Within a second, he is by her side again, on the opposite wall to the broken window, looking down a twisted path of pine trees heavy with dew. The undergrowth is subtly snapped in several areas, enough of a clue for the two to begin their march into the woods.

"There may be a seal nearby." Adriel says flatly, shoving aside a large stone as she does.

"In this direction?" 

She squints her eyes, clearly unsure. 

"We are several miles from Dease Lake, British Colombia. In a landslide long ago, a church built on this land sank beneath the water, yet remained preserved by the ice. It could be the site of a seal that the demons mean to reach."

"Why would they make the detour? Why not return to Hell first?" Castiel questions.

Again, she is unsure. A cloud drifts over the full moon, passing shadows over the already dense path in front of them.

"Perhaps they cannot. Something is tying them down, you said as such."

He nods, but cannot shake the feeling that they only have bits and pieces of the full story.

For a long stretch of time, it's just the two of them in silence, with only the sounds of birds and the crack of sticks below their feet to fill the air. Neither angel lets their guard down, but the only signs of nearby demons they see are those that make up the faint trail they're following. After a while, Adriel finally speaks.

"What's he like?" she asks tentatively. "The Winchester boy, I mean." 

Castiel has to think about the question for a moment. Of course, the two of them had only met once, but he'd been watching Dean for some time, so he has some idea.

"He's human, I suppose. Rather stubborn." 

She shakes her head, amused.

"They all seem to be. I only assumed he would be different."

"I did too." Castiel sighs, watching a raindrop splash onto the earth in front of him. 

Somewhere in the distance, thunder rolls, and Adriel turns her face to the sky disdainfully.

"I never do visit Earth much. I find that humans rarely change between the centuries." she says, looking down at her own vessel.

It's an accurate assessment, but not entirely fair.

"Neither do we." Castiel points out.

She shrugs, admitting his truth.

"Yes, well. We are creatures of habit." she says, cracking a smile. "They are just creatures."

Privately, Castiel disagrees. But before the conversation can continue, there is a rustling from the thinning undergrowth ahead, and an explosion of movement as a demon, previously hidden in the forest, leaps from the bushes and takes off running into the night.

"Follow it!" Castiel orders, breaking into a spring in an instant.

Adriel complies, splitting off from the trail and letting her blade fall into her palm. The once serene forest bursts with noise and chaos as birds and small animals scatter in their path, and the three figures scale logs and hack aside branches in their chase, the absence of the moon making it difficult to make out their paths. The demon is fast, but it's large vessel is easily faltered by obstructions and thorns, placing it on an even playing field with the two slower angels. Thorns catch on Castiel's coat at he runs, and he curses. The untamed wilderness obscurs his vison of the demon that throws glances behind itself every few seconds, checking to see if it is still being followed. It's somehow managing to keep it's footing, a task that Adriel has more difficulty with, her legs catching in the roots of trees. Their feet pound against grass and mud, vessels breathing heavily despite their lack of exhaustion, and the trees grow fewer and further in between, getting shorter and shorter until all of the sudden they vanish, and the two angels stumble with surprise into an open clearing, rain drizzling down on their exposed bodies.

"Angels." comes a sneer from ahead of them, and they turn to see a group of three demons, plus the one they had chased, scattered over a long, rocky shore.

Clearly, they've made their way to the lake. A large expanse of dark water stretches out into the horizon, surrounded by flat, grey rocks and the trunks of felled trees. It seems far shallower than it should be, though, it's beach much too wide, and the remains of a wooden chapel are exposed above the waterline, the group of demons standing in front of it with knives drawn for a fight.

They are wholly unprepared to be drawn so quickly into a fistfight, but the two fight to regain their composure, eyes darting around to survey their opponents.

"We know you're in possession of a heavenly weapon. We are here to retrieve it." Castiel says as soon as he can, managing to gather his wits enough to sound threatening. 

The demon standing closest to them - a tall woman with short, black hair and calculating eyes - smirks at the notion, gesturing for her companions to gather behind her.

"I don't think so, honey." she laughs, and with a flick of her wrist, brings out a stolen angel blade that glints even in the absence of moonlight. "We don't take orders from you cloud-jumpers."

Castiel tenses at the sight, and Adriel steps back, gripping her weapon tighter.

"You will lose this fight if you attempt it." she warns, sounding less alarmed than Castiel knows she feels.

The demon rolls her eyes.

"I doubt it. But I'm not stupid. I brought insurance." she sneers, and snaps her fingers.

A chill creeps up Castiel's back as the bushes by her side rustle. 

"Insurance?" Adriel growls. "What does that mean?"

She is answered by two shadowy figures emerging from the forest- a demon dragging a limp and injured angel, who Castiel recognizes with cold dread.

"Zaqiel." Castiel says instinctually, and the battered angel raises his head weakly in response.

The demon grins, tossing her blade in one fell swoop to the demon captor, who brings it to Zaqiel's throat in the blink of an eye.

"That's right. You're gonna let us do our ritual, or we're gonna kill your brother in front of you, and make you watch. Leave us be, though, and you can leave with him- he's been a real pain in our asses anyway." she drawls out, slipping a smaller knife from her belt and twirling it between hands.

Castiel scowls. Of course, he will comply. The seal breaking or not makes little difference to him- his mission is to retrieve the blade, and he will do so. It's only a matter of if Zaqiel survives, which is obviously preferred. The lower ranking angel had grown on Castiel, after all, with his trustworthiness and bravery.

"How do we know we can trust you?" he says cautiously, playing the part of 'trapped'. 

"Oh, I wouldn't expect you to." she sighs. "But it's either that, or I slaughter all three of you, and neither of us really want that yet."

Adriel glances sideways at Castiel subtly, but he remains stoic, hoping she understands.

"You will not escape Heaven's wrath." she growls, but makes no move to approach the group, and he relaxes just slightly at her cooperation.

The demon winks at them with a grin.

"Of course not." 

Her subordinates turn to face the half-sunken church, and one begins digging through an old leather bag. Castiel ignores them for the moment to look over Zaqiel, who is barely sitting up in the grasp of the demon. His face is adorned with open wounds, carved from his own angel blade, and he is bound by handcuffs that, on closer inspection, are engraved with Enochian too far away to read. His grace is clearly depleted, making him weak to the magical bindings, and he seems to be in concentration, but he breaks it momentarily to meet Castiel's gaze, dull panic in his eyes.

 _Castiel. Stop them._ He begs telepathically.

 _I cannot. I will not risk your life._ Castiel says back, praying it is convincing enough, a slight guilt in his chest for not being able to ease the young angel's worries. But he does not know the truth, and will not know the truth until it is decided.

Zaqiel's face is painted with desperation, finding no solace in Castiel's words. He says nothing else, only breaking their eye contact momentarily by closing his eyes, bowing his head far enough that his chin almost touches the blade. It is a strange pose, almost prayer-like, and Castiel squints in confusion, noticing his clenched hands and tense muscles.

_Papnor ol._

The Enochian words echo through Castiel's mind, and he knows Adriel hears them too, her eyes widening a fraction. The angel has broadcast them across all of heaven, two simple words that last the length of his next fateful movement as he lunges forward, forcing the demon to it's feet, and in an instant, plunging the silver blade deep into his chest.

Castiel has no time to react. He cannot move, frozen in time as light pours from Zaqiel's trusting eyes. The demons shield themselves from the glow, but he stares forward, unblinking, into the true face of the dying angel, shock freezing his limbs. The sky cracks with lighting and opens up, rain pouring down in thunderous sheets, as though God were looking down on His fallen child.

_Remember me._ He had said.

Beside him, Adriel's blade glints in the light of the flashing storm, and suddenly, she is moving. Before Castiel can even focus his eyes she has cut the throat of the nearest demon, and he gathers his senses frantically, feeling for the cold steel of his weapon in his rain-slicked hand. He cannot retrieve it in time, though, and one of the demons is on top of him in a heartbeat. He stumbles backwards over stones, lighting illuminating her snarling face. She has managed to grab the blade from Zaqiel's corpse and holds it above her head, but on instinct, he grabs her wrists and holds them tight, fighting against her downward swing. The pounding of the rain drowns out his thoughts and his base instincts kick in, sending him ducking under her as he suddenly lets go, her knife clashing against the stones. Sparks fly, quickly doused by the storm. He finally secures the hilt of his blade in his palm and skids around to face her, scrambling to his feet. Unbalanced, she rushes him, and he darts aside to dodge her attack, swinging with deadly precision towards her exposed back, where she is too late to move to protect. 

The steel sinks into her flesh in an instant, and she freezes where she stands, mouth agape in the throws of death and shock. Castiel's contempt rises in his gut as he twists the weapon, jerking her forward, her whole body lighting up with orange energy as her life drains.

"That's the last of them. Grab the blade." Adriel shouts from where she stands over the corpse of their leader, thunder booming over her words.

Castiel does not respond for several seconds, stiff as he stares down at the dead demon. The command takes a moment to process, making it's way through his stunned brain, knocking it back to the present.

He blinks, facing Adriel for a moment, before nodding. The rain runs in streams down his face as he bends over to pry the blade from the demon's locked fingers, and he notices the flecks of dried blood clinging to it in spite of the storm. 

"We should go." he says over a thick tongue, still fighting to find proper footing.

Adriel nods, looking up at the sky.

"I believe Zaqiel put a binding spell on them. It was draining the last of his power, but they needed him as leverage, so they kept him alive." she tells him, and Castiel gives a dazed nod.

He steadies himself with a hand on his knee, raising his head to face the scene surrounding him.

"He did not have to die." Castiel says quietly, gazing at the corpse of his friend, with it's charred wings burnt into the shore of the lake.

Adriel nods solemnly. 

"His sacrifice allowed us to complete our mission." she reminds him. "Because of him, we will be safe."

It is true. The angel blade was back where it belonged, and the demons were dead. But nonetheless, his last words echo in Castiel's mind, and the angel walks to the body with careful steps. Zaqiel's vessel is empty and slack, it's face returning to a peaceful expression, rain pooling over the eyes.

"Rest well, brother." Castiel says forlornly, placing a hand on the its forehead.

There is a brief moment of silence. The rain is unceasing, perhaps filling up the lake to it's previous shores, or perhaps simply falling with no purpose. Adriel seems uncertain of what to do, shifting from foot to foot, until Castiel straightens his back, and moves back to her side, blinking water from his eyes.

"I'm ready." he says simply, and then they are gone.

-

Dean is angry when he returns.

The Rising of the Witnesses was clearly an ordeal. Castiel can see that in the shards of glass and scattered objects that line the floors, and in the bandages poking out from Dean's sleeves and collar, complementary to his bruised cheek. But yet he stands, alive and well, if somewhat furious.

The feeling is not unrequited.

"If there is a God, then what the hell is he waiting for?" Dean snaps, his face marred with pain.

Castiel wishes he could see. See the vastness of the universe, and the touch of God. The billions of years stretched out into the single lifetime of an angel. But he is young, and he cannot, so he is furious. 

"The Lord works-" he begins, but he's cut off by Dean.

"If you say 'mysterious ways', so help me, I will kick your ass." 

The angel thinks of Zaqiel, of his blank face staring up towards the pouring rain. Of all that Heaven gives up, the wars he has fought for the command of God, and he narrows his eyes.

_Mysterious ways is more than you will ever understand._

_Mysterious ways is all we have._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> if you thought the pacing in this was weird then buckle up because it will only get worse  
> hope you liked my cas introduction! im praying he feels in character lol. its hard to write him this early in his character arc and i may have gone a little overboard with the god stuff  
> see yall next chapter for more of sam makes bad choices


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